The Painting
by Aspenleaf
Summary: An ordinary portrait means so much more when the subject becomes the object of one's fantasy's. Written for the Support Haiti Compilation.


**To my beta's Lambcullen and Cheddah who fix my messes, I love you ladies. Irene, thank you for being an extra set of eyes. Thank you MsKathy for organizing this, and to all the readers for your generous donations. Its amazing what we can accomplish when we all come together. **

**I do not own twilight.**

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I sat in my chair, staring at the painting in front of me. The glow from the fire danced along the canvas, lighting it in a very… stirring way. I studied every angle, every curve, the subtle contrast of colors blending together.

I would settle for nothing short of perfection on this commission.

The deep velvet black of the chaise illuminated her ivory skin, giving her an otherworldly look. I had painted many women; you could say it was my specialty. Never had a face haunted my dreams, consuming my every thought. I ached to touch her skin, to know if what my imagination had conjured was right.

She would be returning tonight for her final session. Once the commission was complete, it would mean I would never see her again. This bothered me immensely

The door opened, and my housekeeper showed her in. By now, the routine felt natural; she would step inside and disrobe in front of me, slowly pulling the layers of silk from her body. She would then unpin her hair, allowing it to fall free about her.

She had no idea how sensual she was. What every movement of her body did to me.

Carefully she would position herself on the chaise, I never had to repose her, she new exactly where I needed her.

Today, however, would be different. I always used sensory during the final stage of any portrait. A technique passed on by my master involving touch, it helped me to visualize my subject with more than just my eyes. She knew this, and seemed prepared.

I approached her slowly; careful to not seem too eager. There was no mistaking the lust that was coursing through my body, threatening to ruin everything.

I sat on the chaise and reached out searching her face wanting to be sure she was ready.

My fingertips lightly ghosted the crown of her head, down her cheek. I moved across her chin and up the other side taking my time around her eyes. Finally I reached her nose, then her mouth. I dragged my fingers back and forth, reveling in the softness. Her lips parted softly, and she made the tiniest noise of satisfaction. I grew hard at the thought of what other noises she could make.

I moved my fingertips slowly down her neck, to her collar bone. My imagination had not done her justice; her skin was perfect, soft and delicate.

I moved to her breasts, circling around before moving inward. The pink flesh around the nipple tightened into a small bud, as I teased it slightly. Her stomach was flat and again the skin was perfect.

I was getting closer to where I so desperately wanted to be. Realizing my control was failing, I moved to her legs. Starting at her toes, I worked my way up, ever so slightly. As I neared her bottom, her thighs broke out in gooseflesh. My hand moved over each side as I fought the urge to grasp the flesh. I moved toward the hip and descended down toward her sex. There was a glistening sheen in her slit, evidence that she was aroused.

I nearly groaned, as I thought of all the possibilities.

But the painting needed to be finished and so, reluctantly, I tore myself away.

I am unsure of how long I worked, but she never moved. Those eyes remained fixed on me, as I applied the remaining details. She never questioned me, nor did she ask for a break. Which surprised me, since most of the women I painted talked incessantly.

I put down my brush and examined the canvas carefully. I looked at her. My eyes roamed over her body taking in everything. I knew this would be the last time we would be together like this; after this picture was completed she would be gone.

I found nothing lacking, and realized, with sadness, it was done.

"The painting is finished," I choked out.

I didn't want to look, but was unable to turn away any longer. Her expression though was that of need, of longing.

"Does that mean you'll finally touch me the way I need?"

No doubt my expression was that of confusion, what on earth could she mean?

"I don't understand madam; I understood this painting was a gift for your future husband." The words came out more bitterly than I'd intended.

She rose slowly, and sauntered toward me.

"It is." I felt my heart deflate at her words.

"What am I, then? Merely a toy?"

"Would you like to be?" she questioned playfully.

Again, I found no humor in the way she spoke to me.

"You are being quite moody," she chastised, before her expression softened. Her mouth moved slowly towards me, brushing lightly against my ear as she whispered.

"The painting, Edward, is for you."

I rounded on her quickly, the shock of her words sent fire through my veins.

"But how?"

She didn't let me finish before she pressed her lips to mine, kissing me desperately.

"I control my own destiny; I want you Edward. If you'll have me?"

She seemed so uncertain, as if I would ever want anyone else.

"Of course Bella, forever."


End file.
